


oh, you say that word and pour myself like wine

by Dorminchu



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Dubious Consent, F/M, If you think about this plot logically you may get a headache, It's about as coherent as a Hideo Kojima narrative but I had fun?, It's less of a fix-it and more a violent train crash, Mid-Life Crisies, Mild Sexual Content, Movie: No Time To Die (2020), Not SPECTRE Compliant, Post-SPECTRE, Rare Pairings, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Tension, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorminchu/pseuds/Dorminchu
Summary: She was never Bond's to keep.[Madeleine/Safin, No Time to Die-centric]
Relationships: James Bond & Madeleine Swann, Safin & Madeleine Swann, Safin/Madeleine Swann
Kudos: 11





	1. All Wicked Shapes And Lines

**Author's Note:**

> A warm-up writing exercise for _Insult to Injury_.
> 
> 90% of this is probably going to be jossed. Title comes from the track _The Only Thing That Shines_ , by Shriekback
> 
> EDIT: Fixed the title as I misheard the lyric previously.

She never got the dress off, but all he needed were his hands. Disconnected between the act itself and the sight of her unraveled, one hand balled up against his coat, her expression ambivalent. Her nipples perked, pale skin flushed under scratchy woolen blankets—once her pulse subdued, she began to quiver, breath visible in frigid air.

Warmth bled from her pores, stirring gooseflesh.

A softer suppleness to her body enraptured him beyond mere desire. Smoothed up her shoulders, her throat, cupping her face in naked palms. Her lashes fluttered.

Safin took her hand and let it slide idle against his jaw—warm, mottled skin. She did not retract.

Inexplicable, this feeling unspooled. A deeper cut than love—as though holding a mirror to his own imperfected idealisation—stilled his tongue.

Swann stared at him with wide blue eyes. He wrapped her in the blankets, a protective gesture, and sat with her until she drifted into the emotionless void of sleep.

Then slipped his mask and gloves back on, turning away.


	2. And When I Woke I Started Laughing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This concept was too promising to leave as a teaser. I might capitalize on it within another story, but for now, here's Madeleine's side of the situation!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from _Not Your Kind of People_ , by the band Garbage. Been on a crazy _Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain_ kick lately.

Madeleine feigned sleep until he began to make the rounds, then cracked her eyelids to observe. Thoughts converged sluggishly into the tactile; the winter air revolving thin and bitter in and out of her lungs, residual heat trapped unpleasantly beneath the blankets, reminding her this was no dream.

She thought, inexplicably, of Bond.

Specifically, the faded image of him tossing away the gun into the Thames on a warm summer's night—a spur-of-the-moment display of his resolve, not uncharacteristic—and how even back then, she wondered if he was doing it for her sake.

They were married within the same year.

Within a month he became restless—three months, and they were hardly in the same room. James jumped at any chance to throw himself back into a pale imitation of a mission, fruitless thrill-seeking through various hobbies. First it was boating, then water-skiing, then it gradually escalated into more dangerous ventures. It was amusing initially, but eventually he started ending up with injuries and she couldn't ignore the fact he wasn't getting any younger. 

So after a lot of brooding she'd finally sat him down one morning and told him she wanted a divorce, because they were just going to keep stepping on each other's toes for the rest of their lives if they didn't figure out a compromise. He would leave for several days and come home smelling of whiskey, unable to look her in the eye without wincing. They sniped out of habit, not passion. Their dynamic had shifted from spouses to roommates. It was depressing enough to think about, let alone admit—without the constant sense of danger, they were shells of themselves.

James wasn't even that upset. Well, he'd tried to be—he couldn't deny it with a straight face. Was it all for her sake, this act of perfidy? She feared his true answer would break her.

Which brought her to the present: On her mother's couch with her underwear down her knees while the man who had once tried to assassinate her father disappeared into the other room.

 _It's for your safety that you were brought here,_ he'd said when she first woke up, bare-faced and stoic. _Bond will be coming to collect you in a few days._

Madeleine hadn't known what to think. She'd wanted to be furious for a good minute, but it was bizarre enough seeing him in the flesh, seventeen years later—a childhood monster that had lost its edge by daylight. Standing on her feet, out of her heels, the top of her head came up to his brow—James was not a tall man but he was still taller than Safin—the disparity had intrigued her simply for the sake of its existence.

She'd caught his arm and pulled him close enough to feel his breath on her cheek. He hadn't asked what she was doing, just locked eyes as though waiting—for what, permission?

So Madeleine had kissed him, because why the hell should it be any different for _her_ when Bond would happily take the opportunity to get his in-between missions? Safin hadn't closed his eyes or kissed back. She'd cracked her eyes and he was still staring—flustered, she pulled away, intending to offer some contrite apology. She got halfway through the word _sorry_ when Safin kind of grunted, took his gloves off, working efficiently at her dress until she'd scoffed, amused and slightly patronised, before helping him help her.

The bitter air had felt like tiny pinpricks on her skin—but it was enough to remind her she was alive. Felt like sacrilege, letting him put his hands over her—she wasn't even married anymore, and her father had been dead for five years. She hadn't talked to her mother in six.

Safin didn't speak. Just ran his hands over her calves, thighs, stomach, working at her underwear and, well—the rest was evident.

She wondered vaguely why he hadn't gotten off; maybe it wasn't the point. She was never Bond's to keep.

She frowned. They had divorced a year ago. She really should be angrier at herself, but she felt frustration at a lack of justifiable emotion. Perhaps it was the drugs in her system. Most likely it was simply indicative of her own mid-life crisis. Departing from one dangerous man into the arms of another—now that certainly didn't sit well with her.

Sound of the old gas stove reached her ears, a faint hiss; he was boiling water.

Safin came back around, paused in the entryway. She couldn't feign slumber any longer and sat up. He came over to her without a word, and she considered her priorities here. She put her heels back on and stood, matching his height. Her hands raised his mask—the cold only further emphasised the severity of his scarring—as he stared her down, a different, challenging light in his gaze.

She touched his face. He bared his teeth in some stiff intimation of a smile that was somehow far too genuine to be misinterpreted.

Well, she thought, this wasn't exactly the solution she'd had in mind, but since when had she ever gotten what she wanted?


End file.
